“I am liberating this poor downtrodden symbol of our country’s national bird!” Doc shouted.
“You must have flunked your ornithology classes at veterinary school,” I said. “Or maybe you’re having a flashback to a previous animal liberation adventure. He’s a buzzard, not an eagle.”
Doc glanced at George, who hunched his neck and looked unmistakably buzzardish.
“This poor, downtrodden symbol of … of our society’s callous insensitivity to the environment,” Doc corrected. He took a deep breath, ready to continue orating, but he made the mistake of taking it too near George and began gagging.
“Just leave George alone,” I said over the coughing. “I don’t think he wants to be liberated.”
“You’d be surprised how quickly wild animals learn to fend for themselves again,” Doc wheezed. “His hunting skills will return to him when he returns to his native habitat.”
“Buzzards don’t hunt; they eat carrion,” I pointed out. “Besides, George only has one—”
“He’ll learn to find his own carrion, then,” Doc said, beginning to sound a little irritated. He grabbed George’s perch and began dragging it again. Now I realized that he was heading toward the window at the other side of the room.
“You’re crazy.” I said as I headed for the switchboard to
call the police. Giving Doc and George a wide berth, of course.
“Here you go, George!” Doc shouted, flinging open the window and setting the perch upright again beside it. “Independence Day!”
George, who had been scrambling to keep his grip on the moving perch, greeted the outdoor air with as much enthusiasm as if Doc had tried to stick him in an oven. Which, considering that the temperature outside was again in the high nineties, wasn’t too far from the truth. George gave an angry squawk and began sidling away from the window.
“You see, he doesn’t want to return to nature,” I said.
“He’s been corrupted by civilization,” Doc said. “We must push him out of the nest.”
With that, he tipped the perch so it slanted rather steeply toward the window. George shrieked in terror.
“Stop that, this instant!” I ordered as I rushed over and tried to set the perch level again.
“Fly free, little bird!” Doc shouted, shaking the perch.
“He can’t fly free, for heaven’s sake,” I exclaimed. “He’s got only one wing.”
Doc gaped at George, whose lopsided condition was now obvious—he was flapping his single wing wildly, trying to regain his balance, but unsuccessfully—he was sliding inexorably toward the open window.
“Oh, my God!” Doc exclaimed. After gaping for a few moments, he lunged out and grabbed George just as the buzzard’s first foot slipped off the end of the perch. George, not surprisingly, interpreted Doc’s lunge as an attack. He lashed out with beak and claws and then vomited on Doc. When the squawking died down and the blood, feathers, and other things stopped flying, George and Doc were sulking in separate corners, nursing their wounds and glowering at each other.
“Doc,” I said. “If you really want to find George a better home, I’m all for it. He doesn’t belong in a reception room. I’m sure there are places that take wounded birds of prey and try to help them lead the most normal lives possible. Come back and tell me you’ve gotten George a berth at one of those places, and I’ll help you carry him out. But until then, leave him alone.”
“Should I dress his wounds?” Doc asked.
We both looked at George, who fluffed his feathers out, bobbed his head, and shrieked.
“You can try, if you like,” I said.
Doc limped out. I considered and discarded the idea of moving George back to his original corner. He was a little in the way, but I figured he wouldn’t appreciate moving again right now. I cleaned up the reception room as well as I could, removed the old newspapers, and spread out a new set beneath George’s stand.
By this time I calmed down and felt bad about hanging up on Michael. But now, of course, he wasn’t answering his cell phone. Chill, I told myself. He’s probably on the set, with it turned off. I’d catch up with him sooner or later, and make peace. And maybe it was better if I didn’t until, say, tomorrow—when I would already have made my final late-night visit to the office and wouldn’t be lying when I promised never to do it again.
About two o’clock, a call came through the switchboard that made me do a double take. A rather officious secretary asked to talk to Dr. Lorelei Gruber and, when I told her the doctor was out, left not only her boss’s name and number but also their firm name. A law firm whose name sounded familiar, probably from when I was looking up numbers for the attorneys Rob recommended. I pulled out the yellow pages to check.
Yes, there it was. Savage and Associates, divorce attorneys. The wonderful aptness of the name for a lawyer specializing in divorces had made it stick in my mind.
Was Dr. Lorelei, the self-proclaimed expert on relationships, looking for a divorce?
Of course, there could be some perfectly innocent reason for a divorce attorney to call her. Perhaps he referred clients to her, clients who had some hope of reconciliation. Perhaps he was her client—even divorce lawyers must sometimes have troubled relationships. Perhaps he was her cousin.
Or maybe she was getting a divorce. Had she, perhaps, found out about her husband’s secret life as Anna Floyd?
Normally, I pretended to be oblivious of the contents of the messages I gave people, but I couldn’t resist. When Dr. Lorelei strode into the office after lunch, I looked her straight in the eye as I was handing this one over.
“Your lawyer called,” I said.
She started visibly and looked around the reception room as if to see if anyone else had heard. “I hope you realize how inappropriate it would be for you to gossip about this,” she said.
“I hope you realize how insulting it is for you to even say that,” I replied.
She looked hurt, and I wondered if I’d been too sharp. Then she began fumbling in her purse, pulling out a half-shredded tissue, and I realized that she was blinking back tears.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “This is very difficult for me.”
“Here,” I said, quickly pulling out several tissues from the box on the reception desk and handing them to her. If I were a better person, I thought, I’d go over to hug her, but I couldn’t quite bring myself to try. She patted her eyes carefully, trying to soak up the tears before they hit her makeup, then blew her nose vigorously and held the used tissues back
to me. I blinked at them, then picked up the wastebasket and held it up so she could deposit them.
“Sorry,” she said.
“It’s okay,” I said.
“This is very embarrassing,” she said. “In my situation.”
“If you don’t love the guy anymore, why keep beating your head against the wall,” I said, shrugging.
“It’s not that I don’t love him,” she said. “I do. But he doesn’t meet my needs.”
I was fishing for information, I admit, but this was way too much information.
She must have deduced my reaction from my face. “My emotional needs,” she added.
“I see,” I lied.
“He’s just not romantic enough,” she explained. “He’s very intelligent and reliable. We have a very honest, healthy relationship. But he has … no imagination. No sense of play. Not a hint of romanticism.”
I stifled the urge to giggle, remembering some of the more purple passages in Anna Floyd’s books. And wondered whether or not I should reveal her husband’s secret. Would it rescue their marriage? Or was his lack of romanticism only an excuse she could replace in a heartbeat with being dishonest, impractical, and a male chauvinist pig.
What the hell. But she’d never believe me if I told her. I pulled open the drawer and snagged one of the Anna Floyd books. Under it lay the unfinished Anna Floyd manuscript. The first page had Anna Floyd’s address—a post office box in a nearby town—and e-mail address: rosenkavalier3@yahoo.com. I grabbed a pen and jotted the e-mail address on the inside front cover of the book.
“Here,” I said, holding out the book. “You should talk to the author.”
Dr. Lorelei stiffened and backed away a step. “I really don’t see what I would have to say to her,” she began.
“It’s a him, using a female pseudonym,” I said. “I jotted his e-mail address inside.”
“And why would I want to talk to him?” she said, backing up a few more steps.
“I think you’ll find he has some useful insights on relationships,” I said. “He might have some advice you’d find useful.”
“I know you mean well,” she said, backing away. “But I really don’t think you understand.”
With that, she fled toward her office.
So much for trying to help the lovelorn, I thought. I dropped the book on the desk and answered a ringing line.
I tried to call Michael’s cell phone several times before I left the office. No answer. I left a message at his hotel. Then I went home and repeated the process several times. Dammit, if he was going to sulk this long just because I resented his trying to order me around … I’d settle things with Michael tomorrow. After I finished skulking around the office one more time. I put on my skulking clothes, made sure the black light was in my purse, and then, realizing that 6:30 was a little early to reappear at the office, lay down on the sofa to kill an hour or so leafing through Mother’s latest decorating tome.
It was past midnight before I woke up again. I just don’t get this nap thing. I was sweaty from the stuffy air of the Cave, and more tired than before, thanks to nightmares of being chased down the halls of the office by bolts of flowered chintz. And while I knew the picturesque patterns ironed into my cheek by the tufted sofa fabric were unlikely to be permanent, I really hated having to go out of the Cave looking as if I’d gotten a Braille tattoo. Even if the only people likely to notice were any Mutant Wizard staff with nothing better to do than hang around the office after midnight.
As I strolled over to the office, I realized that I was getting rather used to prowling about Caerphilly in the wee small hours. I knew when to cross the street to avoid yards with overgrown shrubbery in which muggers or shoelace-hating cats might lurk. I knew that exactly in the middle of a particular block, a large fierce-sounding dog would begin barking when he heard my footsteps and persist until an irritated, sleepy voice called out, “Shut up, Groucho!” I knew that at some point along the route, a streetlight would buzz and go dark as I approached it, and even though I knew that it was probably due to a burned-out bulb or a malfunctioning photoelectric cell, I would, as usual, wonder if my body had undergone some strange mutation and now gave off streetlight-killing rays. And when a police car passed by the end of the block, I would make an extra effort to look relaxed and nonchalant, as if it were the most natural thing in the world to be strolling about town after midnight in dark pants, a dark shirt, and black Reeboks. Just another hardworking cat burglar on her daily commute.
By this time, I knew better than to barge into the office assuming the coast was clear. I skulked in the shrubbery at the edge of the parking lot until I was sure no one else was hiding there. Although come to think of it, all I could really be sure of was that anyone hiding there had more patience than I did. I waited inside the front door until my eyes had adjusted to the inside light level, which turned out to be useful. If I’d gone upstairs right away, I would probably still have noticed the suspicious shadow in the hall outside the Mutant Wizards office. But if my eyes hadn’t been adjusted to the dark, I probably would have leaped out to neutralize the shadow’s owner with a few swift kicks and punches, and I would have been very embarrassed when I realized I’d attacked an old-fashioned floor mop resting harmlessly in a pail outside the
janitor’s closet. I made a mental note to complain to the cleaners tomorrow.
I crept inside the office, easing the door shut so no one would hear me coming, and I skulked about from doorway to doorway, looking for signs of other skulkers.
And I spotted something. A flash of light. I paused, and peered in the direction of the light. There it was again. Someone was in one of the cubes, using a flashlight.
To be precise, someone was in Ted’s old cube.
I slid silently through Cubeville until I was right outside the cube where the light had appeared. I readied my own flashlight and was about to leap out and confront the intruder when—
My pager went off.